What could be more homey and cozy than the words "tea-kettle"? Blame it partly on an early over-exposure to The Hobbit, what with Bilbo Baggins's longing for the kettle just starting to sing, but I believe there's a wider truth to be told: a tea-kettle might represent one of the great heights of human progress.

Big whup about Danish modern design or flat-screen televisions or GPS-enabled-mobile devices when compared against the ability to hot up water quickly -- and in such a neat, contained manner!

I tap the big red lever at the base of the power-cord to start the current flowing from the wall outlet, grab the heavy black handle to heft the works to be sure I am not heating three tablespoons of water. I can walk away and wait for the grumbling drum-roll that announces the boil, or I can tune my ear to the distinctive click of the kettle shutting itself off. Is the sound metallic or does it sound like old melamite? Both -- and also like peace and civilization.

Within a very short time (watched or not) the water has boiled and I am free to make a cup of tea, or brew a cup of coffee with my Melitta filter, or prepare instant oatmeal, or fill a hot-water bottle, or sometimes, simply sip on warm water. Warm water can be a comfort.

Consider too, how the addition of the slightly retro word "electric" adds a layer of charm to the phrase. Everything these days is "electronic" or "digital" or "wireless," with the power of electricity taken for granted. But an electric tea-kettle -- that IS a miracle.

There is no kindling to split, no heavy three-footed cauldron to heat over a campfire, no coal fire to stoke, and no pot merrily boiling itself dry over the gas flame. Instead this shining exemplar of the glorious mid-Century American manufacturing tradition, a Platonic ideal* of a tea-kettle that sports a wide, shining body and a generous triangular spout. No sketchy Chinese steel or soft plastic to degrade, no digital read-outs to break. It's been going strong for three, four, five? decades.

Just in case inspiration strikes, I like to have a notebook and a writing implement close to hand. Which is how we have a fairly complete documentation of road-kill from a recent road trip. Why document road-kill? Well, that's another category of answer...

Roadside tragedy: on the shoulder, a dead armadillo and the remains of two or three vultures. Wonder if a bored driver went all "The Great Santini" on them.

South Carolina at 6:49 pm. Many billboards.

North Carolina at 8:09 pm.

Overnight at Hendersonville, NC, 9:30-ish. Chilly outside the car. No sign, really, of the Civil War horrors from the highway. Passed an exit called "Bat Cave" too quickly to react with anything but astonishment. Who knew?

DAY 2Start at 7:16 am. Top up gas, coolant, oil. Listen to NPR while noticing that North Carolina has (had?) a lot of possums.

Virginia. 9:05 am. Passed Hungry Mother State Park. Resolve to look up details, but not while the vehicle is in motion. Urp.

1:00-ish near Fairfield, VA, stop for traffic congestion, notice rear tire has decided bubble-wobble. Exit and manage to find tire to match eccentric rims. Back on road at 3:23 pm.

Maryland at 5:47 pm. Spring is just starting up here: dogwood in bloom.

Pennsylvania at 6 pm.A pair of groundhogs dead on the road: Fat, nearsighted fools in love. Bright yellow forsythia blooming.7:24 pm: Spotted live groundhog on shoulder of highway. It looks remarkably similar to a tree stump. But with a nose.10:00 pm, arrive D & B's house. Ahhh.

DAY 310 am hit the road after yum diner breakfast. Many dead deer in northern Pennsylvania. They made it through the winter only to die crossing the road. Ironic. Tiny green leaves on the trees.

11:10 am, New York state.1:00 pm, spotted our first Tim Horton's. The diner, not the exercise guru. More irony.1:50 pm, our first dead porky-pine just north of Syracuse. Spring is barely here: the grass is green but the trees are bare. 5-ish: arrive at sister's. Safe, alive, whole. Thanks, world.

Writers don't get a lot of encouragement outside their overactive imaginations. As a rule, they face widespread disinterest, active rejection, and harsh judgment. A writer develops self-esteem and focus. Or she quits.

And yes, I do understand that this makes a rather tidy excuse for my own vanity, bullheadedness, and those possibly delusional levels of self-confidence I so often enjoy.

Still, writers persist.

They keep hoping for readers. They aspire to give readers something, to pass along a message. They maybe dream about making a little money. They -- and by this I mean me –– want to prove that the identity they've cherished on the sly (a writer! an actual writer! a not-so-awful writer after all!) is true in the wider context.

I recently parted company with my agent. It was (taking a big breath) a difficult and painful choice on my part: having gained the attention of a reputable and successful agent at a big-name agency in New York, it felt like running the wrong way with the ball to let her go.

But I did.

And now, I'm an aspiring novelist without an agent. Again. Does being again without an agent make me less legitimate in the wider context of readers and publishers? Uh, yeah. Duh. Granted, traditional publishing is changing fast, and granted, the innovations have a solid business plan, but still.

Anyway, why blog about this? (Eeyore chimes in with, "Why blog about anything?" He also says, "Thanks for noticing me.")

Because, in my not-so-secret heart-of-hearts, I think it's the point. To try. To fail and yet keep trying. To use my allotted days in an effort to make something cool to share with people.

Why not dream big? After all, it's a limited time engagement* we have on earth. And what better use of our time than to give it a try?

Put within the practical context like that, a reasonable person might ask herself: Who cares? Why bother? What was I thinking? It will be over all too soon anyhow.

Hello Eeyore.

This original illustration by Ernest H. Shepard from A.A. Milne's 1926 Winnie-the-Pooh.

And, frankly, to see if I too can help some poor creature survive a long airplane trip by telling a story that makes him forget that he's stuck in a narrow seat high above ground. (Thank you Kate Atkinson and Stephen King for -- in your different ways -- doing this service to humanity for me recently.)

And for now, I think that means sticking by the traditional route to publication: an agent, a publishing deal, subsidiary rights, etc., etc. Alrighty then, where did I put that Kevlar Cape of Self-Confidence? Ah yes, there it is, next to my tin Magneto helmet and that nice stretchy Lasso of Truth. What-ho and away, Silver!

She looks to the Food God for her treats these days, and it is his side of the bed she visits to be reassured in the middle of the night.

Despite it being ME who carried her down the stairs for the emergency midnight pitstop last night. And ME who prepared the hot-water gravy that made her kibble breakfast extra-super delicious.

Regardless the scrumptious morsel of cheese I just handed over with her medicine hidden inside.

Nope, doesn't seem to matter. Perhaps this last trip was too much for her faith. After all, we were gone more than two weeks, bounced home for a single night, and were gone again for a couple of days. A small dog, evidently, has a limit. She loves visiting Uncle Markie -- his kids mean that there is abundant food droppage, she gets to go in the car, and wherever they end up, she kind of rules the roost. Plus her religion has proven flexible before.

So now, she is walking away from me when I sit on the floor to indulge in a little belly-rubbing. She's got her glowing bug-eyed gaze tracking Mr. Linton and she barely glances at me.

She is pinning her belief on men, perhaps, having been abandoned by one woman after another.

It's sad but true: her mysterious first owner who went into nursing care and whose daughter (I picture a sort of Snidely Whiplash female) could not stand the small dog; my mom; and now, repeatedly, me. The first time I returned from a long trip solo, I found her cuddled on the couch with my husband, belly to the sky, the expression on her flat face one of vague befuddlement: "I thought you died!"

I find I am not a smiting-and-brimstone kind of deity, at least in my non-fiction life. But it does kind of sting. Sharper than a serpent's tooth and all that.